


Broken Happy Ever Afters

by suyari



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blind Character P.O.V., Gen, House Stark, House Targaryen, No Spoilers for Season 8, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:46:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suyari/pseuds/suyari
Summary: “Benjen?” Aemon called quietly, afraid of what he may lose when the night was replaced by the dawn.“Yes?”“His name.”





	Broken Happy Ever Afters

When the Raven had arrived, Aemon had wondered at the reason behind the request. It wasn’t often the Warden of the North sent such an entreaty; in fact it was the first he’d heard from the stoic Lord of Winterfell since the formal note he’d sent upon his ascension to the family seat. Aemon knew Maester Luwin to be a calm and accomplished man, quite learned and hard working. He doubted there was good cause for the Warden of the North to summon him all the way from the Wall to Winterfell. It did no good to indulge Lords and Kings, for they were brothers of the Night’s Watch and beholden to none. Aemon did not wish to encourage such requests in future by acquiescing to such a request now. He was completely prepared to inform the Lord Commander - who had left the decision entirely up to him - that he would write back to Lord Stark, declining his invitation and reminding him of the Brothers place. And he would have, surely, had Benjen Stark not come tumbling into his office sometime well after dark, when the young Ranger ought to be resting. 

“The Lord Commander has informed me my brother has written an urgent request?” As greetings went, it was not very polite, but Aemon had long ago gotten used to the hardy directness of Northern folk. Their sense of honesty and duty was perpetually refreshing. Members of House Stark in particular took loyalty and oaths to new heights of pious devotion. The likes of which Aemon was sure did not extend beyond their bloodline. 

“Yes,” he replied, patting the table before the open seat beside him. He could tell from the heavy clomp of the lad’s boots that he was nervous, perhaps even fearful for his family. Benjen had come to them directly after the war, some would say far too young to take the vow. But he had never once faltered, never once been disobedient or haughty. There were times Aemon felt the lad was wasted on Ranging. He had a strong will and a sensible head and could do great things in command. He was also deceptively light on his feet, had an uncanny sense of direction, and a sword arm that Kings would grant Knighthoods to. They had been quite fortunate to find in Benjen Stark so avid a devotion to the calling. 

He slid the parchment across the table with a slow nod that the lad might read it. To his credit, the parchment made little sound as it was unraveled and reviewed. “My nephew is ill…” he said, voice strained. Aemon could feel his eyes on him as Benjen slid the parchment back toward him. There was a small note of pride in his spirit over the way the lad always met Aemon’s eyes, even though he had no sight to meet them in return. “Maester Luwin says he may die.” 

Aemon sighed, fingers trailing over the parchment. “It is a pity, but it is not unusual. How old is your brother’s son now?” 

“They have both seen seven name days now,” Benjen replied, shifting in his seat with a low clearing of his throat. 

“Your brother makes no mention of which son is ill,” Aemon pointed out. 

“Nor would he. His son is his son. There will be more expected of Robb when he comes of age, surely. But, that does not make Jon any less important.” 

Try though he might, Aemon could not contain his smile entirely at the lad’s response. Few men would consider a bastard as important as a true born. Few men would have the courage to ignore the distinction entirely. Leave it to Ned Stark to continually confound him. And Benjen Stark to support his brother with every last breath in his body. 

Aemon knew the quality of men. Having grown up in King’s Landing, he was well aware of every tone and inflection, the meaning behind every pause and uneven breath. Losing his eyesight had only amplified the ability. It warmed his heart to know Benjen was worried equally for his nephews. In his heart, he made no distinction either, gave neither priority despite the circumstances of their birth. 

“Does your brother have any other children?” 

“Just a young daughter, Maester.” 

“Ah,” Aemon replied with a sage nod. What a catastrophe lay at Winterfell’s door. If Ned Stark’s heir was the ill son and the illness took him, it left Jon Snow - his bastard - as his only living son until his wife bore him another. Every year that would stretch between the bastard’s continuing health and the long awaited next true born son could be disastrous in more ways than Aemon chose to entertain. It was no secret Lady Stark held no love for the child and showed him little kindness. Aemon was certain the situation would worsen gravely if he lived and her first born son did not. 

If the ill child was Ned’s bastard, the potential for disquiet within the family would be worse. For all the North knew it was not simply duty that bound him to the boy. Any man could sire a bastard, it was no hardship. Many men took active roles in their bastards raising. But few men were so bold as to so openly adore them. Ned Stark was a stern man to be certain, but Aemon had heard others talking. He put no faith in gossip, however, it was almost distressingly universally acknowledged that the Warden of the North’s bastard was his most beloved child. It was said that he looked upon the child’s face often, losing himself in his visage, sometimes so completely as to be distracted from his work or conversation. He made certain his bastard had the exact same education as his heir, with expensive tutors and precious learning materials delivered to Winterfell with regularity. His bastard was taking the same lessons in time with his heir, everything from how to read and write, arithmetic, history and lore, to sword fighting, battle tactics, archery, hand to hand combat and riding. Each boy had his own horse, his own saddle, his own light sword. And from the murmurings, Aemon knew that Ned Stark’s Bastard was dressed in fine worked leathers and heavy furs - as befitted a second son. 

It was said that the Warden of the North loved nothing as much as he loved his Bastard. Most said because the child was all the man had left of the woman he loved. Though Aemon knew the child to look entirely Northern, there were perhaps yet some hints or temperaments of the woman whom the once second born son had perhaps fallen in love with and intended to marry. Before everything had gone horribly wrong and the world had upended about them. Ned Stark had chosen duty over love. But love still followed him around in the shortened steps and bright smiles of his children. 

No...if the bastard were to die, Gods knew what would become of the Stark household - and all of the rest of the North as a result. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his decision after all. Benjen had certainly thought so. 

“My brother would not write without cause,” he’d argued. “Ned wouldn’t be asking, if he hadn’t the need, or the means.” 

It was true. Despite being an entirely separate entity - beyond the reach of nobility and titles beyond the singular duty in sending them to the Wall - the Brothers of the Night’s Watch relied very heavily upon the support of the North itself. Without her generous support, they would not be capable of even half of the little they achieved. And they were all well aware of said fact. 

“Very well,” Aemon sighed. “Then _you_ shall be accompanying me.” 

He could not see the lad’s smile, but he could certainly feel it clearly enough. “Yes Maester,” was all the response he gave, before promptly, obediently returning to his quarters to prepare for the journey. 

Some would call it madness to travel so far with so little assurance that one would arrive in time to be of any use. But the North, as was often said, remembered. With Winterfell as the destination and Benjen Stark at his side, they made the journey in record time. Aemon began to wonder if perhaps Lord Stark had been so elusive in his letter to serve a greater purpose. For surely, all they met believed the Warden’s heir’s life to be in imminent peril; neither Benjen nor Aemon himself saw fit to disavow them of the notion. 

They arrived in the dead of night - an apt, if discomforting descriptor, for the bite of cold and silence all around - and were quickly whisked away by Maester Luwin deep into the heart of Winterfell. 

“Is my nephew well?” Benjen asked, doing his best not to rush either Maester, but desperately needing to see the child, and just as desperately clinging to the hope that the news upon their arrival would not be ill. 

“He has not died,” Maester Luwin replied. 

Beside him, Benjen gave a full bodied exhale. Though his hands and the guiding shoulder to Aemon’s side remained steadfast, there was a sort of trembling relief from his very core that vibrated out from his chest through his limbs. Aemon gave his hand a supportive pat. 

“But, as I have informed Lord Stark, the fever has persisted too long. If he ever wakes, I’m afraid, he may forever be addled.”

“How long has he been with fever?” Aemon asked, curious. He could not have been suffering since before Lord Stark had written. It would kill even a grown man, let alone a boy of tender years. 

“Thirty-six days.”

Benjen nearly collided with him as they both came to an abrupt, astonished stop. 

Maester Luwin sighed heavily. “I have done all I can. It is truly quite persistent. Yet the boy has shown remarkable strength to have endured it so.”

“Benjen, do retrieve my bag,” Aemon said, knowing he might need a quiet word with the lad’s elder brother - and something far more important besides. He could feel the hesitation in him. While his heart did hold some regret for turning him away so close when they had come so far, he knew the situation could bear very little more. 

With a quiet, “Yes, Maester,” the lad was gone. 

Maester Luwin’s arm bumped gently against his own, offering him assistance. Aemon took it gratefully. “Is he lucid at all?”

“I’m afraid not. He’s rather quite delirious and calls all night and day for that which no one can provide.” 

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Maester Luwin left him at the door with a knock to signal their arrival. The haggard voice that responded, “Come in,” told Aemon all he needed to know of the stress Winterfell must surely be under. 

“Lord Stark,” Aemon greeted, opening the door and easing his way inside. 

Heavy, steady footfalls made straight for him with swift resolve. “Maester Aemon, thank you for coming.”

“You may thank me later if I prove to be of any assistance. Are we alone?”

“Yes,” Lord Stark replied, the solid sound of the door closing nearly echoing in the tomblike room. 

“The boy?” 

Lord Stark guided him to a bed ladened with furs where Aemon could feel a small body thrashing around. The boy was whimpering softly, but otherwise his chest sounded clear. Most would have likely expected Aemon to reach for the boy’s chest or perhaps his arms, even his neck. Aemon touched all of those as his fingertips danced their way up to the boy’s strong jaw. He followed the dips and curves up to the boy’s sweat soaked curls, traced the orbits of his eyes, thumbs smoothing over high cheekbones and over an aristocratic nose. Aemon may have lost his eyes long ago, but he well recalled the face of his own kin in the dark. 

He recognized something else as well, in the way the heat ebbed and flowed from the boy’s skin. Lord Stark he could feel beside them, a strong, proud man reduced to hovering like an apparition about an ill child’s bedside. 

“Benjen will arrive any moment with my things,” Aemon informed the man. “Perhaps you had best tell me now which of my kin birthed this child for you.” 

To his credit, Lord Stark did not at all attempt to deny it. “It was not your kin that birthed this child, but mine.” 

Aemon had lived a long time. The times he had felt his hands quake had been so distinctly etched into his memory, he could recall the events surrounding them to great detail. He had to add another to his remembrances. For he knew of only one Stark maid whom had been taken by a dragon. 

By all the Gods…

The door was wrenched open without so much as a knock and the quick, steady footfalls that followed its resounding close could be no one else’s. Benjen Stark set the bag down beside Aemon’s foot and after a too still moment said, in a queer sort of tone, “You told him.” 

“I didn’t have to tell him,” Lord Stark replied. “He told me.” 

A Dragon being raised amongst Wolves. Very little perhaps, could have surprised him more. However, the knowledge did kindle a fire in his spirit. Aemon had lost his entire house to the war. What little was spared had been secreted away across the sea, too far from him for his knowledge and experience to do them any good. But here, he had been given another chance, where he had never thought to find one. In the frozen wasteland of the North at the heart of the very family who had been so deeply entrenched in the ruin of his own. 

The Gods did so enjoy testing him. 

He felt no shame, no remorse, nor grief at what may have been had Benjen Stark not advocated for his family so strongly. There was no time. And he spared no more for thoughts. The Warden of the North was as obedient and quick to respond to orders as his younger brother; between the three of them, they had set the boy back on the path toward health. There would be much more required, unfortunately, before he could be truly well again. 

His fingertips smoothed over the familiar bumps and ridges, slow and reverent. The weight a comforting reminder of happier times as he spread his palm and drew it from the bag. 

“Is that…?” 

“Many believe my house to be full of superstitious nonsense,” he replied, reaching for the boy’s slight frame. “And in many respects, perhaps they are right to think so. Do help me rest him upon his side.” The boy’s body was gently turned, his small knees curving up the moment his shoulder met the mattress below. Aemon used his free hand to rearrange his arms, forming a small nest of limbs, before gently placing the stone against the boy’s chest. He made sure the tip of the curved portion rested unobstructed against his breastbone, then tucked his small limbs securely about it. “But all traditions form out of necessity. We may forget the reasoning behind them, but the intent remains.” 

The child took a deep inhale and slumped slightly as the heat was drawn away from him. 

“He will rest now. But, out of necessity, I recommend extreme caution. I will remain with him here, until he wakes. Let none pass through lest they be prepared to risk their lives on what they might find.” 

“Will you be taking it with you when you return?” Lord Stark’s voice had hardened, though he was no less respectful. Aemon wondered how much the truth weighed upon him every day. Did he fear for the boy’s life as much as Aemon did? Did he fear for it more for having known the child? For having loved and tended to him since his birth? The Warden of the North was guarding a terrible secret. And children were so very innocent and sincere. 

“He is ill because he was not properly nurtured. Dragonfire needs out. You will need it close should this happen again.” He tucked the furs up about the boy, wishing he could do more to shield him from the world. “Keep it close and he will suffer very little. I’m sure you can find a place for it in such a vast keep.” 

“Ned,” Benjen spoke quietly. “We’ll sort it, Ned. I’ll help you.”

“Your other son…”

“What of him?” Lord Stark replied. 

“Are they close?”

Lord Stark heaved the sigh of a parent well versed in the suffering of childish whims. “Insufferably.” 

Benjen released a low chuckle. 

“Cat is convinced Jon gave Robb some disease, for he has refused to eat or sleep, pounding on the door for entry day and night. I’ve even caught him trying to scale the walls.”

Benjen’s laugh was less discreet at the admission. “How high did he get?” he asked with the distinct sort of glee younger brothers took in prodding at their elders. 

Aemon merely nodded. “Dragonblood lends itself to a certain affinity. We love deeply and fiercely. If they have bonded, no power in this world can separate them until they are men grown and choose for themselves. Even then...they will still echo one another’s steps and find solitude in one another’s shadows. Put his spirit to rest, let him visit his brother.” Before Lord Stark could protest, he added, “I will ensure he does not see.” 

The air about them was weighed. Aemon knew Lord Stark was doing his best to contain the situation, but some things could not be contained. As his family had come to know all too well. 

Footsteps stalking away was the only sign he had that Lord Stark has acquiesced. 

“They’ve been sleeping together since they were babes,” Benjen informed him, moving about the bed to sit - presumably - upon the boy’s other side. “Much to Cat’s displeasure....” Aemon could hear the grief and sorrow in his voice. Understood the price such a secret cost. 

“Family, Duty, Honor,” Aemon recited. 

Benjen snorted, though he made no remark. Aemon could feel the mattress dip as he leaned forward and stroked the boy’s hair, pressing a kiss - perhaps to his brow - and murmuring soft apologies in the quiet of the night. The sort of sickbed language that was considered allowable. Easily overlooked, for the parameters of the situation, and just as easily forgotten should the subject live. 

The thump of anxious feet caused Aemon to reach for the boy. He drew the furs up high about his shoulders, burying the stone in the bed linens. Jon still needed skin to stone contact if he were to rouse any day soon. Despite the speed of the approach, the footsteps paused at the door. Lord Stark’s encouraging murmur could be heard before the door opened slowly and as quietly as could be managed. A hearty sniff preceded the grief stricken squeak of, “Uncle Benjen!” And then the presumptive future Lord of Winterfell burst into heavy sobs. 

Lord Stark sighed again, but it was Benjen who got up from Jon’s bedside and crossed the room to rescue his nephew. “There now,” he said gently. “Jon’s going to live. I’ve brought Maester Aemon all the way from Castle Black to be certain of it. There’s no need to worry, Robb. The sun will rise again.” 

The second sniff had more fortitude in it. Sometimes, Aemon took time to seriously consider House Stark and all that they encompassed. There were times he couldn’t be quite sure whether their natures had influenced the war or whether the war had influenced their natures. Still, for never having met the man, Brandon Stark seemed to be the least steadfast among them. The Gods only knew what lay in store for the next generation. 

Benjen set Robb on the bedside, which he had vacated earlier. There came the sound of rustling as the boy promptly buried himself beneath the covers and clutched at his brother’s form with distinctly trembling hands. Aemon patted one reassuringly. “Your brother will live,” he informed him. “I swear it.”

Robb Stark’s reply was muffled by the back of Jon’s neck if Aemon was guessing their proportions correctly, “By the Old Gods and the New?”

“By the Old Gods and the New. Your brother will live.” 

The Heir of Winterfell gave a tumultuous exhale and burrowed closer. In very little time at all, his breath was coming low and even. 

“Thank you, Maester Aemon,” Lord Stark said from the end of the bed. “You have done my family a great service. We will not forget.” 

Aemon smiled softly to himself and reached out to brush his fingers against Jon’s small brow. “And my thanks, Lord Stark, though I know not where to begin, for returning to me something I’d thought long lost. It is gift enough.” 

After a stretch of time spent comfortably in quiet reflection, Benjen moved about the room with just enough sound to not startle Aemon, coming to stand at his side. “Is there anything I can get you before I go?” he asked, voice low in deference to the slumbering children, and his brother’s own still form. There was only so much a body could withstand. Even one so imposing as the Warden of the North’s. 

“No, thank you,” he replied. “I will be well here until morning.” 

“I’m going to see my brother back to his bed and then find my own.” 

For all that the Lord of Winterfell was a battle hardened warrior, he made little noise or protest as his little brother carried him from the room with only a soft word. 

“Benjen?” Aemon called quietly, afraid of what he may lose when the night was replaced by the dawn. 

“Yes?” 

“His name.”

Benjen made a soft sound, whether amused or with fondness, Aemon could not say. “Aegon,” was the equally quiet response. 

Aemon nodded as he was bid, “Good Night” and listened to the sound of the door closing and the footsteps retreating. He was an old man, but he was a seasoned one more so. He checked once more that the stone was safely tucked away out of sight, but still close enough to do young Jon some good. With a hearty stretch, he made himself more comfortable in his chair.

“And now my watch begins.”


End file.
